Those Weekends In New England

Chapter Twelve

When singing, words will catch in a dry throat. Fear causes the same reaction.

Hannah came home to an empty house. No sign of Peter. She carried her bag to her bedroom, carefully putting her things away, while at the same time breathing a sigh of relief. It was almost six p.m. so if she was quick, she'd have everything out of her suitcase and back where it belonged, the room looking normal, before he walked in the door.

She hadn't spoken to Georgi yet today. When she woke that morning, Denny's warning about hangovers had instantly come to mind. She didn't so much feel hung over, although nausea was present; there was more a strange, unaccustomed feeling of imbalance which hit her in the gut.

But after two aspirins and three cups of black, heavily-leaded coffee, she'd felt almost normal and proceeded to ready for her return. On her drive home, her mind went over her situation. What was she to do, how would she go about achieving her independence without hurting anyone? How, just how, could she leave Peter without bitterness and, she was quick to include, without incurring his newly-reared, overbearing temper?

She was no closer to a solution than she had been when she'd left. Yet, she reminded herself, no matter what else, her little jaunt had taught her how capable she was of striking out on her own. All she had needed was to make that first move, and her confidence now had a stepladder on which she could build future moves.

Everything was put away, the room, and her person, looked as it always did, neat and spotless. She'd gone to the kitchen to pour a soda from the already-open liter bottle when the phone rang.

"Hannah."

"Peter, where are you? You're supposed to be home by now." She looked at the clock over the oven. Nearly seven.

"Miss me? How sweet."

There was really nothing wrong with what he'd said, yet Hannah doubted his sincerity. "No, really. When will you be home? Should I make dinner?"

"Only if you're hungry. I'll be away one more night. Things are going better here than I'd expected." His voice was excited, raising a note. "Remember when I told you about the store's expansions, all around the country?"

"Sure. You said this could mean good things for your career."

"Exactly. And I'm positive now. Hymig is leaving the company. After I found out about his indiscretions with the manager of our newest pharmacy, the male manager of our newest pharmacy, I made sure it was professionally all over for him. Guess who's next in line?"

Hannah had never heard him so animated. In spite of herself, and what she knew was inevitable, what was around the corner between her and Peter, she was genuinely happy for him. She didn't like how pleased he sounded about his bosses' problems, especially since he'd done the investigation and pressed the issue, but that was another side of Peter she didn't care to delve into right now. She didn't have the energy.

She decided to play his game. "Who's next in line? Do I get three tries?"

"No. You know who. And Yours Truly intends on having the whole enchilada." He hesitated a minute. "Yes, ma'am, Mrs. Jergen, your husband intends on having it all."

There were suddenly other voices, muted, indistinguishable to Hannah's ears.

"Listen," he told her, suddenly distracted, "I've got to go. They're calling me back into the meeting. I'll see you sometime tomorrow." The phone abruptly went dead.

"Fifteen minutes, Mr. Lorenzo."

The voice filtered through the bathroom door, insistent and concerned after a few knocks. When he didn't answer, the voice came to him again. "Mr. Lorenzo?"